


Cheiloproclitic

by breaumonts (AnonymousCatastrophe405)



Series: I'll Fall With You [8]
Category: The Royal Romance (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, Flirting, Late Night Conversations, Mutual Pining, POV Alternating, POV Multiple, Requited Love, Stargazing, do not copy to another site
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-16
Packaged: 2019-09-20 17:47:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17027244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousCatastrophe405/pseuds/breaumonts
Summary: Cheiloproclitic-(adj.) Being attracted to a person's lips or mouthSomehow the inches between them have diminished again.  They always seem to do that, especially when there’s no one around to see it happen.  It feels inevitable that the gap is slowly closing, faster and faster the closer and closer they get to clearing her name.





	1. Basorexia

**Author's Note:**

> Jumping ahead to Book 2, at some "missing" point between Paris and Shanghai. 
> 
> **Basorexia** \- _(n.) A strong craving or desire to kiss_

In the glow of the flashlight Lisette is all shades of gold, a spot of warmth on the chilly autumn night when Maxwell joins her at the edge of the house’s lawn before the slope transitions from manicured garden to vineyard.  

“There’s supposed to me a meteor shower,” she tells him as he sits beside her.  “The Tears of Saint Laurence?”

“We usually have a pretty good view of them.”  He leaves a polite amount of space between them as he settles and looks at the inky vastness of the sky.  He gestures at the property around them, at the hectares of vines older than the King Father his mother had once been so proud of.  “All this nothing out here comes in handy.  No light pollution.”

Beside him, Lisette shifts and lays down.  He waits a few moments before joining her.

“You know, the Tears–the Pleiades?  They’re in August.”  He looks at her.  “It’s October.”

She sighs.  “I know.”

She just wanted to get out of the house, which is a sentiment Maxwell very much appreciates.  He gently nudges her elbow with his.  “ **Hey, at least the stars are beautiful tonight, right?** ”

She hums in agreement.

“I was kind of hoping you’d join me,” she whispers after several moments.  At his surprise, she amends, “We’ve talked about stargazing before, at the barn raising, but we’ve never done it.  I wasn’t sure you were still awake when I texted you.”

“I’m always up,” he says, too quickly, too eager.

She smirks, just a little teasing.  “And down for anything.”

His mouth suddenly feels a little dry the longer they look at each other.  She’s turned onto her side to face him.  “You know me, always keeping busy.”

They’ve shifted closer to each other in the last few minutes, and Maxwell is only just realizing it now.  Their knees are touching.  He can feel her warmth, smell the lingering trace of the flowers-and-ozone perfume on her sweater.  

That polite bit of space is suddenly much, much smaller, but neither of them pull back.  

“You have freckles.”  Lisette lifts her hand and taps the thin skin just under his left eye, one corner of her mouth curving into a smile when he blinks reflexively.  “Even in your eye.  I always–I always think the little hazel spot in this one is cute.”

Before Maxwell can stop himself, the loud and impulsive part of his brain hijacks his mouth to ask, “Just cute?”

Her knee bumps against his with purpose.  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

God, he would.  It’s maddening wanting her this badly and not being able to do anything about it except for playing this game with her, uselessly hoping she’s the one who breaks first because he’s determined to just let this flirtation die when they finally clear her name and return her to her place at Liam’s side.  Maxwell can’t take another scolding from Bertrand for something he’ll never act on of his own volition.

Lisette’s knee is just barely between his and she’s propped herself up on her elbow and lightly touches his jaw so they’re looking at each other.

She licks her lips and he doesn’t hide the fact that he watches her do it.  The chapstick she always uses is dark pink, and he wonders what flavor it is.  He wants to know, as much as he’s ever wanted anything.  It kills him not to know.  

Maxwell goes cross-eyed as he watches her lean in and his mind hums as he tries to take in every detail of the moment as it happens.  Her fingertips are cold, her hair tickles his face and neck as it falls over her shoulder, her chapstick tastes like cinnamon.  How did he ever think it was anything but cinnamon?  He sighs into her mouth, relieved to finally know, and buries his hands in her hair as she presses against him until their legs are tangled together.  

She’s so warm.

_Bertrand’s going to kill him_.


	2. Strikehedonia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To hell with it. She needs to know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Strikehedonia** \- (n.) The pleasure of being able to say "to hell with it"

Maxwell gently nudges her elbow with his.  “Hey, at least the stars are beautiful tonight, right?”  
  


Lisette hums in agreement.  The sky here is so wide here, almost impossibly close, and it makes her feel like the first time she stood in the middle of Grand Central and looked up at the mural on the ceiling when she was a little girl.  Like the shape of the stars overhead are just barely out of reach and the lines of the constellations are real, visible things.  They’re not in the right places, though, and the sky is a different, deeper and truer blue.  She’s still not used to that.  
  
  
She supposes it should be a lonely thought, but it’s not, and she smiles to herself.  The company is good, maybe even the best.  
  


“I was kind of hoping you’d join me,” she whispers after several moments.  In her periphery, Maxwell looks at her like she’s grown another head in front of him.  She shifts her shoulders to settle better on a rock beneath her.  “We’ve talked about stargazing before, at the barn raising, but we’ve never done it.  I wasn’t sure you were still awake when I texted you.”  
  


She turns her head to study his profile as he looks back up at the sky.  He has such an expressive mouth.  He probably doesn’t even realize how much it telegraphs, or how he bites his lip when she makes him the good, anticipatory kind of uncomfortable.  He looks back at her and says, “I’m always up.”  
  


“And down for anything,” she reminds him.  She rolls onto her side to face him properly, and it closes the foot or so of distance he’d left between them just a bit.    
  
  
She wants to lick the spot on Maxwell’s lip he keeps biting, to feel the divots left by his teeth.  His lips look so soft, and they’re moving, always moving, and Lisette has to believe he’s a good kisser with a mouth like his.    
  


“You know me,” he murmurs.  His voice dips low and Lisette’s stomach flips.  “Always keeping busy.”  
  
  
Somehow the inches between them have diminished again.  They always seem to do that, especially when there’s no one around to see it happen.  It feels inevitable that the gap is slowly closing, faster and faster the closer and closer they get to clearing her name.    
  
  
Their knees are touching.  In the darkness and the warm, dim light from the lantern she brought out with her, his eyes are dark dark dark.  
  


“You have freckles.”  She lifts her hand to touch his cheek, carefully grazing her fingertips over the thin skin just under his left eye.  Maxwell doesn’t have nearly as many freckles as she does, and she can’t see them in the dark, but she’s spent so much time over the last few months that knows they’re there, partially hidden under his tan.  He blinks quickly, reflexively, and she feels his eyelashes against her skin for a fraction of a second.  “Even in your eye.  I always–I always think the little hazel spot in this one is cute.”  
  
  
“Just cute?” Maxwell asks, clearly hoping for something else.  
  


Lisette bumps his knee with her own.  “Wouldn’t you like to know?”  
  
  
She wants to tell him that not a day has gone by since Paris that she hasn’t wanted to bury her hands in his hair and kiss him until their lips bruise, that she’s driving herself insane wondering if he moans when he kisses or if he’d mind if she bit his lip.  Do his hands wander?  Does he get hard?  Does he submit willingly or is he a brat who will make her work for his obedience?  How amazing will it feel to have his lips on her skin?  
  


Lisette’s knee is just barely between his and she’s propped herself up on her elbow and lightly touches his jaw so they’re looking at each other.  
  
  
She licks her lips and he doesn’t hide the fact that he watches her do it.  She knows he wants her, but does he want this as much as she does?  She has to believe he does when he’s looking at her mouth like that, when he’s biting his lip like that.  
  


To hell with it.  She needs to know.  
  
  
Lisette leans down, and Maxwell’s hands are in her hair, and oh, he does moan a little.  There’s stubble on his chin and one of his thighs is between her own, and the slide of his tongue against hers makes her shiver.  
  


_He’s so warm._


End file.
